PoemsSee Airport in A River and Sound Review online. See Pat’s collaboration in Born Magazine with designer JD Hooge.
The Fable of Sparrow & Ink (Saranac Review, Fall 2011) There was a spill
On the Diminishing Returns of Sparrow Song (Saranac Review Fall 2011) Often coppery,
For When Stray Dogs Occur (Poetry Northwest Fall/Winter 2010-11) The broken heart of knowing you will never again The scent of a city sinking, setting, splashing The mirror flicker Stepping from the train with a bottle of champagne A cool breath on the nape of the neck ipse dixit
Afterlife (Poetry Northwest Fall/Winter 2010-11) If you see a ghost
Complaint (Poetry Northwest Fall/Winter 2010-11) They tried X-rays to burn the warts off my knees sandbags to hold them down a blue bike to tip me over on gravel to get them ether to cut out my tonsils a night nurse to knit me to sleep a Howdie Doodie puppet for tenderness a piano for my ears an opening door to break my pinkie finger a needle and thread to sew it up a typewriter for the mumps calamine for chicken pox Camphor Ice the common cold a sword-swallower for fear a wave to carry me under blades for my feet to slide across ice a blindfold for the concussion a quarter for a tooth a dollar for an A for opinion a penny broken glass to cut my feet a pack a day to sex up my lungs Vanitas to quit a razor dropped in the shower for a night in the emergency room a knife to cut open my breast my belly take what they would a bedpan my ticket home plastic and wires to treat myopia a hammer to beat back my reflexes a shovel to break my back a rock to stub my toe bloody a sink to split open my lip concrete to break it open again a surgeon to chastise a blown out tire to drive me off the highway a ditch to catch me in time
The Woman Who Cries Speaks (The Iowa Review: 35/1 Spring 2005)
But then it is hard to cry and sleep at the same time. So I cry a little first. Cry sleep cry sleep. Sighs get in the way. Yes they do and are not pleasing. Just that lull makes me wipe away a tear. When I dab my eyes I wet the little letter B embroidered on my handkerchief and have to get another out of the drawer. Oh. The candle by the bed is always burning and not burning. What could be sadder? And if I then lie down and cry, as I turn over the sheet gets wet and there is the dampness I feel on my shoulder and the crying begins anew. I have tried hard very hard not to cry in the morning but the sun shines through the window and you know how that is. I do not cry over rain. Anybody can. Sometimes I go downstairs and slice up a pear. It is the teardrop shape I feel a special kinship to. Its sweetness tells me I should be resting now. I cry and keep on crying. For a long time I cried over the whistling teakettle. It was very pleasant. The dog barks the stairs creak the stoves hisses I cry. If I cry too much the tears in my nose taste like a tin cup. No one comes to see me and I cry though I do not like visitors. Why is that do I suppose, then I cry some more. Milk spilled on the linoleum is nothing to cry over. Of course not. It is not interesting. Crying is so interesting I thought I would go to Boston. I rode the swan boats. The swan boat man does not like pedaling and steering all day around the pond, I said to myself. That made me cry. Then the little boy leaning over the side with his lollipop tumbled into the pond. His white dog went in too and floated away. Tears flowed so hard they thudded on my chest nearly tipping the boat. We did not go much of anywhere but around, tossing peanuts to the ducks. Oh yes.
Walking After Dinner (Mid-American Review—Fall 2003, Pushcart Prize 2005) we head out the levee road their croaky voices anthems the older one has reached the bottom of things. blamelessness lies everywhere. It isn’t grief that curves toward us. we scratch their available necks, standing dopey-eyed in their beggar sleeves . It’s a consolation
On the balcony a sway of three girls shoulder-to-shoulder facing out in dresses offering little resistance to where the river bends, hair abuzz, sparks from their bare-arms dotting the violet sky. A smell of small fires breathing air. It is the song of their backs strung with spines that irradiates the room, and doesn't care who hears it. I watch how the harbors of their necks are made navigable by the phosphors they shed, and mourn for any who can't find refuge there. Though I can't attest to their innocence, it is to their benefit they don't know about the wings, each vein intact, the stirred weight still folded beneath their dresses, or the distress caused by river light breaking through the cracks at their feet. Sea lions slip from the rocks. Ships' engines slow to a moan. It is futile to try turning sailors back once they ache to warm their hands by the fires on shore. The girls' waists are perfect. There is damage where we are drawn to the flame. If they want whatever they ask for it is only because they want—no spleen, no undercurrents. For now, they don't need to bow from the hip to hear the river say what it says to their hair.
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